


Our Station

by genteelrebel



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Romance, Schmoop, Slash, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3368855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What goes through Richie's head the night he finally decides to make his move on the ROG?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Station

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics quoted are all from "Our Station" by Spirit of the West, from their "Tripping up the Stairs" album. It's a wonderful Celtic-style drinking song which always vividly reminds of Joe's bar. Go listen to it, you won't regret it.

_Meet me tonight, I'll buy the first round_   
_I know a little place that you might not have found._   
_It looks down on the city from the underground_   
_This is our station, in the heart of town._

This has to be the dumbest idea I've ever had. I mean, honestly. Methos and me? The World's Oldest Immortal and someone who is-- well, no longer a kid for sure, but even I have to admit that I haven't been grown-up for very long. There's absolutely no reason to think that I have anything to offer him. And young as I am, I know that just wanting what *he* can offer *me* is not enough. It has to be about what I can give, too. Or there isn't any point.

But he's been drinking over at the other end of the bar for more than an hour now, looking like his best friend died--and I'm starting to wonder if there's something I might be able to give him after all. Nothing fancy. Just an ear to pour troubles into, and a shoulder to lean on. And then, if I’m *really* lucky, maybe the rest of my body can follow...

Oh, crap. What am I thinking? The last thing Methos is ever going to want is sympathy from a kid like me. But he sure looks bad. Maybe, just maybe, if I went over there, he'd unfreeze a little...and that could lead to something I've wanted for a very long time. Or maybe he'll say something so stinging and soul-withering that I'll have to leave before I throw something at him. It could go either way, with Methos. You just never know.

Maybe I should go over there. Maybe I should stay right here. Maybe I should leave altogether and...shit. Joe? Could I have another beer please? Thanks man--I know you're busy. The bar is really hopping this evening. But I need it.

It's going to be a long night.

***

_Leave the weather at the door, leave the rush out on the street_   
_Lay down your tools, take the weight off of your feet._   
_Draw up a chair, strike up a little craic_   
_If you've had a lousy day, get the monkey of your back._

It isn't the first night I've spent like this, not by a long shot. Sometimes it feels like I've been watching Methos for forever. In the loft, at the dojo when he comes to spar with Mac, sometimes out on the street--it's all I've *done* for the last year or so, watch him and wonder and try to learn. He's been haunting my mind ever since that day when I first walked into the dojo and saw him kneeling under Mac's katana. Yeah, okay, so maybe I was obsessed with Kristin at the time. I still thought he was incredible. One of the best-looking and most intriguing men I'd ever seen. And after I found out who he really was it just got worse. I’d be working alone in the dojo after hours and suddenly I’d start day-dreaming that he was lounging in the corner watching me. Or else I’d be about to drift off to sleep and suddenly I’d start thinking about his laugh. It was really kinda scary--I mean, it wasn't like the guy had ever so much as looked in my direction. But I thought about him all the same.

_They're talking business in the corner, politics at the bar_   
_While the boy's bringing down the house with his electric guitar._   
_She's going crazy on the dance floor, but she don't need no help_   
_She's just gettin' on with being herself._

There's a lot of life in the bar tonight. A group of bachelorettes are celebrating near the stage, giggling as the bride-to-be opens up their raunchy gag gifts. Everyone else has bunched up into couples or triples or more, drinking and talking and laughing. Methos and I are the only ones still drinking alone. We're forming a weird sort of triangle, two Immortals at either end of the bar, while Joe hovers someplace in between; Joe's polishing the wood with a rag and looking ever so vaguely worried, casting anxious looks at Methos whenever he thinks Methos won't catch him at it. He's got good reason to be cautious. Methos looks--well, he looks like a man who has been drinking for a good long time and is determined to keep it up for quite a while longer, no matter what concerned friends might say about it. There's a sort of "anyone who messes with me now is just asking to be made permanently shorter" aura around him, a message Methos is managing to project perfectly well without saying a word. If I was smart, I'd take the warning and find someplace else to drink.

I'm not smart.

_Some dress for volume, everything's turned up loud_   
_It's a designer's nightmare to stand out in this crowd._   
_Where leathers mix with tweed, pin stripes with polka dots,_   
_Well, it makes no difference in this melting pot._

After all, it's not like I can blame the guy for not looking at me. Why would he, with somebody like Mac around? After Methos showed up in Seacouver, I started spending a lot of time hanging around with the two of them, sometimes saying something stupid or downright smart-assed just to see how Methos would react...and so I ended up seeing a lot of things nobody else ever did. The old guy really had it bad for my teacher. Sometimes the look in Methos's eyes when Mac got up to get another beer or go to the bathroom was so obvious that the man should have been arrested for indecent exposure. But I can't blame him for that, either. *Everyone* looks at Mac that way, male, female, straight, gay, or other. Methos's glances never seemed to develop into anything concrete, so in my stupid way I figured that maybe it meant I had a better chance than if he didn't look at Mac at all. After all, it meant he was looking for *someone*, right? And that a person having a Y chromosome wasn't necessarily a barrier. Trust me, I've thrown myself at girls with far less encouragement than that...

So why not take a chance and throw myself at him now? What's the worst that could happen?

The thing is, the thing I keep stumbling over whenever I'm actually feeling cocky enough (or drunk enough) to get up my courage and do it, is that I know what the worst is. And it's not him laughing, or telling me to go away, or anything else that my ego fears. It's this. Something deep inside me knows that this...thing...I could have with Methos--unlikely as such a "thing" is, and impossible as it is for even my wild imagination to come up with a picture of what it might look like--could be fantastic. More than fantastic. I have a feeling that it could be the sort of thing everyone, mortals and Immortals alike, spend their whole lifetimes waiting for. So I don't want to make my move until I'm damn sure I won't mess it up. Until I know for certain that I have something to offer in return.

So what do I have that a 5,000 year old man could possibly be interested in?

Every time I think about it, I come up with a pretty short list. Tonight's no different. My hands become quite sweaty as I brood over my beer. It's hard enough to come up with a persuasive argument when I'm alone; now, knowing that Methos is less than a stone's throw away at the other end of the bar, I have to fight really hard to keep my mind from becoming blank. Okay, so I have decent body, one that gets better the more I train--but there's just no way I can ever hope to measure up to Mac. Brains? Ha. Again, I do all right, but the few times I hung around in the loft while Mac and Methos played chess I quickly learned there was no way I could ever compete with either of them. Sense of humor? I have no idea if the old guy even laughs at The Three Stooges, much less if he'd find *my* sterling wit amusing. Money?

Let's not laugh.

But, damn it all, there are some things I *do* have. I sit up determinedly on my barstool as I think about them, trying to straighten out my sagging shoulders. Kindness. Compassion. The all-important relationship skill of being willing to hang in there and listen when invited, and equally willing to leave and allow space when not. God, the last few years of living with Mac after Tessa died sure taught me the importance of that! But is Methos even interested in those sorts of things? And if he is, would he want them from a "kid"?

How am I going to find out?

***

_I say, hello old timer, you're looking old against the new_   
_Your sign is still glowing, but the stains are showing through_   
_You're crouched there in the shadows,_   
_All around you've watched them grow_   
_But as long as you're still standing_   
_I know where I can go…_

It's getting late, now. I have no idea how many beers I've gone through, but I'm sure it's more than just a few. Even the bachelorettes have long since given up and gone home, as has most of Joe's staff. The last couple that was smooching in the corner awakened from their trance a few moments ago and emerged, giggling self consciously and adjusting their clothes, to get their coats. As the door shuts behind them I realize that Methos and I are truly alone, since Joe has disappeared into his office in the back. For the first time Methos uncurls from his crouch and turns a bleary eye my way. "Well?" he drawls.

I stiffen. "Well, what?"

Methos sighs, then links his hands and pushes them out over the bar in an improvised stretch. I can almost hear his stiff shoulder muscles pop. "You tell me, kid," he answers. "You're the one who has been watching me all night."

"Uh--" Brilliant reply, Richie, just brilliant. I feel my cheeks start to color, something that hasn't happened since I really was a kid. Methos looks at me appraisingly for a moment, then climbs off the bar stool in that graceful way of his, swinging his coat over one shoulder. He has to be very drunk, given the amount of beer he's put away, but it's impossible to tell. "Right," he says, all business. "I think I understand. Let's take this outside, shall we?"

I frown. "Excuse me?" Yep. I'm quite the sparkling conversationalist tonight.

"Outside," he repeats impatiently. "Come on, Richie. It's what you've been waiting for isn't it?" I shake my head, not having a clue what he's talking about. Methos rolls his eyes and speaks very slowly, as if he's talking to a complete simpleton. "Outside. For the Challenge?"

"Challenge?" It suddenly dawns on me what he's talking about, and I'm horrified. "You think I'm after your head?"

"It's what we do, isn't it?" Methos answers. He shakes his head bitterly. "I don't know why I'm surprised. After all, being offered a choice between loosing my head or killing MacLeod's favorite student is just about par for the course for the day I've been having." He reaches out a long arm, snags his beer from the bar and takes a long sip before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Okay, kid, I've had my final drink. Let's get to it. Outside." He runs an appraising eye around the bar, at the lights over the stage, at the lines of bottles on the back wall. "I'd hate for Joe to be stuck with the bill for a Quickening cleanup. There's a lot of glass in here. Not to mention all the blood from the beheading."

"Whoa, man." I can't believe how quickly things have gotten out of control. I feel like I'm going around the curve on the racetrack, and the bike underneath me has leaned just a little too far to the right. Better straighten out quickly, kid, or you'll be going down... "I'm not here for your head."

"Yeah?" Methos raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Then what are you here for?"

Well, that's the million dollar question, now isn't it? Deep inside, my heart throbs the answer-- you, old man, just you, you and you--but I can hardly tell him that. Not yet. "I don't want your head," I repeat. "I just wanted to know why you were looking so raw all night."

"Really."

His belligerent, disdainful tone gets to me. I adjust my posture, getting a bit belligerent myself. "Yeah. Really."

He laughs. He actually throws back his head and laughs at me, the sound bubbling up through that wonderful lean throat. I'm angry...but damn it, he also looks so incredibly sexy that something in me softens. And so I look past the laugh into his eyes, to see something that startles me--pain, as genuine and naked as it gets, coupled with a steady determination not to give in to it. "Geez, man," I say softly. "What happened to you?"

The laugh chokes off as quickly as it begun. Methos stares at me for a moment, then sit back down on the bar stool, lowering his head. "Nothing 'happened', Richie," he answers wearily. "I'm 5,000 years old, that's all."

"You were 5,000 years old yesterday, too. I didn't see you in here then."

"No, you didn’t. Yesterday I didn't need to be here." He looks bleakly around the empty bar. "Most days, I do a pretty good job of living in the present, keeping my memories at bay. But on other days, the past rises up to bite me squarely on the bum. It's only natural; I have a lot more "past" than present to cope with, after all. Don’t worry about it, Richie. Give it a few more days, and I'll have all my ghosts neatly locked behind their fences again."

It's my turn to be skeptical. "How is drinking your way through Joe's entire beer supply going to help with that?"

"It takes away enough of the pain that I don't realize I'm trying to build fences with bleeding hands," Methos answers bluntly. "And it's a handy way to keep the ghosts entertained while I do. Trust me. It helps." He sags back onto a stool, looking utterly defeated. "Go home, Richie. You can tell MacLeod that he doesn't have to send his students to keep an eye on me. This depression of mine is cyclical; it will pass, it always does. I'm not about to fall on my sword." He sighs. "Tell him to mind his own damn business for once."

I shake my head. For some reason it hurts immeasurably that he thinks the only reason I asked was because of Mac. "Mac didn't send me, Methos."

"No?" He looks surprised, then shrugs. "Joe, then. I have so many watch dogs these days."

"Not Joe, either." He just looks at me, eyebrows raised. "Damn it, man!" I explode. "Get your head out of your ass for a minute and just listen, all right? I just came into Joe's tonight for a beer--no more, no less--and I stuck around because I was worried about you. Nobody sent me, nobody bribed me. I came in, saw you looking like hell, and I wanted to know if I could help. That's it, that's all. Is it so hard to believe that I might actually care about you all by myself?"

He looks puzzled. Not angry, not disbelieving, just puzzled. "Why should you?"

It shouldn’t surprise anyone that I have a temper. It’s been a long time since it got me into trouble. Mac's managed to teach me a lot about keeping it under control. But suddenly, anger is all I can feel—and it gives me the courage to do what I never would have done without it. I walk up to the old guy and grab him by the shoulders. He gapes at me, lovely mouth actually hanging open in surprise. "Because, you idiot," I tell him. And I kiss him squarely on the lips.

Oh, god. What do I think I'm doing????

***

This has got to be the dumbest idea I've ever had. I mean honestly. Methos and me? The World's Oldest Immortal, and someone who is still enough of a kid to believe that a kiss can solve everything, say everything I'm too dumb to put into words? Methos isn’t pushing me away, not exactly, but he sure as hell isn't kissing back. He feels a bit like a dead fish, to tell you the truth. Cold and clammy and completely unresponsive. I let the kiss go on much longer than I should, mostly because I know I'm going to die of embarrassment the moment I let go. Maybe I'll even be lucky, and Methos will take my head out of mercy before I revive...

Then, suddenly, a hand closes in my hair, and it's like a volcano has erupted next to my body. There's heat everywhere. Under me, over me, all around me--and Methos really *is* kissing me now, mouth commanding and insistent and so damn hot I think I might spontaneously combust. He stands up, so his hard, lean body can press the full length of mine, and it's literally unlike anything I've ever felt before. My eyes fly open...but not for long, because Methos's mouth starts traveling over my face, kissing my cheeks, my forehead, even my nose. When he gets to my neck he stops and rests his head on my shoulder for a moment, breath hot and strong under my ear. "Oh," he says. "So that's the reason why."

I laugh. Well, it's more of a chuckle, really. He's holding me too tightly for me to get the breath for anything more. "That's right," I say. I sort of wish he would go back to kissing me, but cuddling up like this is pretty nice, too. I start running little exploratory nibbles up the side of his neck. "Got it in...mmm... just one guess."

"Well, you gave me a pretty big hint," he says a trifle breathlessly. "Ohhhh. " I smile, thinking that I'll have to remember the exact spot I hit that made him sigh like that, but the second I start exploring in earnest he pulls away. "This is a very, very bad idea," he says.

"It is?"

"Yes." A sober nod. "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into, Richie."

"You've got that right," I answer, ducking back in for some more Methosian neck appreciation. Now that this first barrier has been overcome, now that I know how *good* this feels, I'll be damned if I'm going to let him go. "But you don't know what you're getting into, either. Snoring..." kiss-- "bad language..." nibble-- "motor oil ground into the carpets--"

"Oh dear. How shall I ever survive?" I grin, and start licking my way around to his collar bone. Methos stifles a groan. "Richie. Stop that. I'm *serious*."

"Yeah. I know. So am I." I pause my assault, taking the time to look him in the eye. "Look, I've been thinking about this for a long time. The only reason I didn't say anything sooner is that I had no idea what I could offer you. It didn't seem like I had anything you could ever be interested in. But now..."

"Now?"

"Now I *know*,” I answer seriously. “Look man, you've got a lot of past. I don't--but hopefully I’ve got a lot of *future*, and that's almost as scary to me as your past is to you. Maybe together we can see to it that they cancel each other out. Stop worrying about them both and build a kick-ass present instead." Methos starts to laugh. I stop him, placing a hand on his chin so he can't look away. "You don't have to build your fences by yourself, Methos. Let me help. I'm not saying what we could have will last forever--but it could be a station of a kind, a place to stop along the way. Okay?"

There's a long pause, and for a moment my heart begins to sink. Then Methos smiles. "Sounds like a plan to me," he says, and kisses me hard.

And for the first time in my life, I feel like I'm really home.

_Meet me tonight, I'll buy the first round_   
_I know a little place that you might not have found._   
_It looks down on the city from the underground_   
_This is our station, in the heart of town._

 

**Fin**


End file.
